I'm drunk.
I'm drunk
And I wish I hadn't eaten in months.
Everything
Tastes like you.
Everything tastes like your **** in me.
Again.
And my screaming.
Again.
And you not caring
Again.

But you're just my ******.
And my friends are blackmailing you for it.
And now you're blackmailing my friends
For breaking all your bones
After they tore you off of me.
And now it's between you and them.
And I don't want any part of it.
And if I did
No one would give me any part of it.
Okay I do.
But still no one will give me any part of it.

So I'l trudge through
******* mountains
And ***** rivers
And razor blade forests.

But you can't forcefully *******
With my body.
Just to keep yourself warm.

There is probably some grand ideal I am protecting
what it is I do not care to know

Survived another Year
Amongst the ruin of a stranger's land
With the dusty roads, exuding those waves of heat
A sandstorm blowing in from the east
as a War song echoes in the west

I am Blinded by Rage
Though I am glad I do not see

Throughout this ordeal
The mask of Patriotism has fallen off
But I am truly free here
Far from the Home of the Brave

I stand here with bruised fists
and a battered face
With scars on my back
and a smile that isn't whole
Fighting the Good Fight

I stand here
To express my gratitude to War and Conflict
For Blood is Gold
and I am Ready to Bleed

It was a victory really,
leaving this town, if only for a few days.

The drive was long, seven hours long,
but it was fun, an ounce of *** fun.

****** and in the dark
we set our tent up next to the beach.

When the moon rose and the waves grew louder
we opened our bags and procured brown mushrooms, which we ate.
A mile down the beach the mushrooms took effect
and I looked up at the stars
to find them looking back at me,
and it felt as if nature slapped me in the face
and I had to sit down.

We continued on,
stumbling and laughing and pointing at all the beautiful things we saw.
After a few hours, my brain took me in a direction I was not prepared to go.
You see, a beautiful girl appeared in my mind,
and I wanted nothing more than for her to spark the gas in my chest,
and allow me to shoot up into the stars,
the stars we have so often talked about.

But I could not feel her warmth,
and I could not touch her skin,
and I could not see her eyes.
And so I sat,
swimming in my mind,
observing burning cigarette after burning cigarette,
the smoking flowing in one ear
and out the other,
changed,
woven into intricate patterns.

Everything was beautiful,
and she was not there.

How sad it is to me,
that those with the most beautiful hearts find themselves empty.
That those with the loveliest faces find themselves resembling dirt.
That those with the softest skin cut into themselves.

I had been sober for three days
and I had not seen you for three days
but tonight I took
five times the recommended dose of hydrocodene (they always were my favorite)
and I looked at old pictures of you for three hours (you always were my favorite)

The height of her heels
    Shrunk with every passing year.
Each "December", torn away from the calender
   Was a buzz saw, sometimes taking a sixteenth of an inch,
   And during winters that seemed particularly cold to her bones
   Nearly a quarter of an inch would be devoured by time's steady march.

At 18 her heels were confident, tall, strong,
   Proud pillars supporting the pantheon,
   Complete with Houdini-zippers and unnecessary birthstone buttons.
The Uncomfortable beds
   Of the comfort class.

At 26 her friends whispered,
   With martini breath,
   That they could swear that she had shrunk.
One suggested that she had simply adopted a new hairstyle.
After all, who has time to daily consort with the curling iron
   And still make the 6:47?
Good friends make for the worst critics.

At 41, on certain nights,
   Like when the Jove's had their annual tree-trimming party,
   Believable sources say she could still be be seen
   With 1/4 inch tree-trunks beneath her feet.
There were no buttons or zippers any longer,
   To announce her presence as made her across linoleum deserts
   Towards the desserts.
Her footprint was further softened
   By the Doctor-demanded cushion,
   Which eased the weathering toll of
   Each.
   Next.
   Step.
Everyone at the part paid words to her image:
   "Such soft skin."
   "Eyes that look truer blue after each blink."
   "Pilates or Yoga?  I have to know you secret."
But none of the husband saw her on their eyelids
    As they masturbated in the shower that night.

At 70 her wrinkled dignified carriers
   Were most at home in slippers.
She rarely removed them,
   'Cept when she let her toes soak like veteran driftwood
   In a well deserved baby warm tub.
For some reason the "News" insisted on covering award ceremonies
   And she would always feel a sharp
   Pain ping-pong between her heel and toenails
   As she watched the young actresses climb each step towards the podium.
She would still go out, now and then,
   But nobody noted the style or color that her feet were wrapped in.
   Why would they?
For the record:
   Plain, black, flats.
   Appropriately

She died at 82
   And although the casket was closed,
   It can be taken on good authority
   That this regal eagle of a woman
   Was buried barefoot.

I like to think that she is flexing her feet
   Somewhere eternal,
   Just to see how the sand feels
   Between her toes

Dear Jade,

1. Your mother called you curvy. You mistook it for fat. A permanent reminder in your thigh.

2. The night he broke you. You perceived his uncontrollable lust as a result of your drunkenness. This was punishment.

3,4,5. Food. A scar for every one hundred calories you consumed that day.

6. The result of a suicide attempt. All the bleach in the world couldn't clean this mess.

7. Your plant died. When it did, a part of you died with it. I think you were just looking for a reason to fall apart.

8. Your grandmother died and you didn't cry. This was a reminder you could still feel.

9. FAT again. You gained three pounds and your jeans almost fit.

10. Probably needed stitches. You just wanted to see some blood.

11. Your scars were fading. You couldn't bear to see them go. Start over.

It would take me a lifetime to write the reasons behind every one of your scars.
Please. Let this be enough.
Let me enough. Love me.

my body is not a temple
it is not some sacred holy place
    commanding respect
    and receiving as much.

it is not a sanctuary
    open and accepting and
warm for those who are welcomed
a quiet home for lost souls.

it is not a shield, or a cage
    or a home, or a journal
    or a dead language
    or a canvas.

my body is nothing,
    feels like nothing,
feels wrong and sad and unwelcoming -
my body is a shack
a wrecked interpretation of a house

my body is a shack in the cold
no heat to provide anyone who passes by
    empty and crooked,
    creaking in the wind,
leaky roof and broken windows,
a wrecked impression of a house
it asks for no visitors, and no visitors ask for it

and it sits, alone, not knowing the warmth of the temple,
    of the sanctuary, of the house
but sometimes it - my body - wonders, craves
not the desire of visitors, but the desire to desire,
a yearning to know a yearning,
    just some spark of familiarity
    just some hint of desire for company
    and the ability to change to the home it is told it can be inside
inside this wrecked imitation of a house.